


please don't live in fear

by noctipathos



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Minor Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain, Non-Linear Narrative, i know this is boring im so fucking sorry. i love boring., like a smattering of existential angst, panic attack in one scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctipathos/pseuds/noctipathos
Summary: Tim clears his throat dramatically and says, with a speech pattern oddly reminiscent of Damian: “Botanically speaking, a strawberry is not a berry but an aggregate accessory fruit, with the understanding that the flesh is derived from the ovarian receptacle, not the ovaries themselves.”“Berry cool.”timkon 2: established relationship domestic fluff boogaloo
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 29
Kudos: 123





	please don't live in fear

Gotham is never _quiet_ , the relentless undercurrent of car alarms and vaguely concerning shouts echoing from the street pervading even the most insulated of apartments. It settles in his ears like a muffler — and not just because his hearing is enhanced, Cassie has complained about the same thing, thank you very much. Smallville has its own background menagerie of animal noises, sure, but there’s a difference between the occasional lowing of cattle and whatever the hell seemed to be happening on the streets of Gotham on a nightly basis.

Tim doesn’t even seem to register the existence of the subtle murmur of energy that never resolves, never seems to trigger a sensory overload; has only blinked innocently at Kon whenever the latter attempted to bring it up. A quirk unique to born-and-bred Gothamites, probably.

Something jangles outside. “I hate your stupid city, by the way,” Kon says, though he thinks the cutting remark might be somewhat mitigated by the fact that his face is currently buried in Tim’s freshly shampooed hair as they lie horizontal on the bed. “’M gonna break up with you so I don’t have to keep comin’ here.” He presses his face closer into the crook of Tim’s neck and breathes a sigh.

Kon feels the vibration of Tim’s responding chuckle before the man turns underneath Kon’s arm to face him. “Yeah?” Like the evil gremlin-creature of the night that he is, Tim tangles his legs with Kon’s and ducks his head as he assumes an affected pout. Kon instinctively bows his head to follow. “You’re gonna leave me here all by my lonesome?” Kon realizes that their curved bodies are forming a lopsided heart and his own swells.

“Yep. There’s a limit to what I’ll do for you, babe, and I’m thinkin’ that being forced to fall asleep to a lullaby of metal clanging and ominous rustling might be it.”

Kon is a filthy liar, and knows full well that the instant Tim’s lips start to say _juh_ —, he’ll be pushing off the ground in pursuit of the highest altitude possible. Actually, wait. Does the expression work with half-alien clones who have TTK-aided flight abilities? Should he wear a necklace of gold Kryptonite to nullify his powers or something, so the jumping would have the intended effect? He could do that. Lex probably has some on hand, the freak.

“’S that so?" A yawn extends the last syllable, but Kon refuses to be fooled into believing Tim isn’t preparing for his counterstrike. As if he was reading his thoughts, Tim wiggles closer and presses a kiss to Kon’s clavicle.

Kon automatically tightens the arm he has draped across his waist. “I suppose you might be able to convince me to change my mind,” he huffs.

“You are a fiend, Kent,” Tim does some swift and mildly complicated motion to slip out of his grip, manipulating their bodies so Kon’s back is suddenly pressing flat against the mattress.

At twenty-three, Tim has finally traded his frame with the stubborn baby fat that had been clinging to it in adolescence for an abnormally toned musculature. There were many benefits. Kon tries to keep his gaze on Tim’s face — the bastard is _leering_ at him, what the hell — and not on the tensed biceps that had appeared on either side of his head. Rao give him strength.

The yelping of a dog cuts through the electricity building between them, much to Kon’s chagrin. The skin around Tim’s eyes crinkles as he drops his head to let out a snort.

Kon idly wonders if it’s normal to be overcome with affection for the top of someone’s head; a pleasant warmth blossoms from his chest and guides him into brushing a kiss into the hair tickling his nose.

“Dude,” Tim flops directly onto Kon’s body, and while it doesn’t hurt it certainly forces out an unexpected breath, “gay.”

“Yep.”

A fierce battle sprouts between the mechanoreceptors registering the warm mouth that has just appeared on Kon’s neck and his last two neurons attempting to string a sentence together. Two seconds pass and it’s _a hui hou_ to the latter, what a shame.

Tim inches his way up to Kon’s lips, left leg bending slightly at the knee. Kon’s hands have migrated to caress the muscles of Tim’s back at some point when he wasn’t paying attention, and Kon smiles into the kiss as his absentminded strokes make his boyfriend shiver. Actually, fuck Smallville.

The four of them are sitting at the end of the island in the kitchen, an abandoned game of Dominion pushed to the side in favor of a rapidly dwindling number of snacks.

“We have got to stop playing strategy games with Cass,” Steph says. “It is _literally_ not fair that she can predict what you’re going to do by the twitch of your eye, or whatever the hell.”

Cass winks at Tim, hooking her pointer finger and twisting it toward the corner of her mouth.

“I saw that. Yeah I’m jealous, sue me, damn. Conner, back me up.” Steph points toward him with great fervor. Though, to be fair, Steph does most things with great fervor. “God knows Tim wouldn’t.”

“You are such a hater,” Tim says.

“Yes. This is accurate.”

Kon leans back on his stool. “Well, we’d need a new hobby. Otherwise we’ll just watch TV together or something boring.”

Tim swipes a cracker through some hummus. “Apparently that’s what Dick and Donna and Roy and those guys do. Like, talk about their jobs and stuff.” The quartet shudders in unison.

“Legit,” Steph’s stool creaks in protest as she flings an arm over Cass’s shoulders, “when I enter my twenties in, ah fuck, like two years,” she pouts, brightens when Cass pats her hand reassuringly, “I am fully prepared to enter my peak. Fun all the time. Tim, we’re gonna do cocaine.” Tim sputters.

“Stephanie,” Cass cuts in. “Keep brother safe.” A smile curves up her face when Steph nuzzles her neck and plants a kiss on her cheek.

“Please. Who do you think I am?”

Tim scoffs. “Do the words _face_ and _brick_ mean anything to you?”

“It was a defense mechanism, fool, do you hate women who can stand up for themselves? Don’t interrupt our cute moment.” Groaning, Tim faceplants onto a bent elbow while flipping her the bird.

The ice machine in the refrigerator clangs; Kon drifts out of his seat to the fetch a glass of water, stretches out a hand to ruffle Tim’s hair. Over the rush of the tap he can hear Steph asking Cass to show her that Yuan Yuan Tan and Desmond Richardson _Othello_ pas de deux she found the other day.

A car horn blares from outside. Tim’s city is so _noisy_ — a melting pot of sounds expected of a major metropolis clashing with shrieks and uproar found in the gloom characteristic to Gotham only. Floating over to the window of the apartment Kon can see a billboard on the far edge of his periphery advertising legal assistance with “clown-related injuries or damage”. Fucked up, is what that is.

“Kon?” Kon turns from where he had been squinting at a weird smudge on the glass to the portentous sight of three Bats staring at him, unblinking. Eerie. Looking like actual bats, kinda, actually. He’d make a furry joke if he didn’t think it would cost him his left testicle, which would be _super_ (ha) annoying, he has plans for that testicle, thank you very much—

“—lark said he’s on his way here now—”

A confused _haamph?_ pushes its way out of Kon’s mouth. “ _Ha_ , predictable,” Steph’s grin is reminiscent of an anglerfish. They had watched _Nemo_ recently. “Just kidding. Anyway, we were wondering if you would consider blowjobs to be partial vore.”

“Like, how did you even think of this? Did you just wake up one day and brainstorm ideas for the worst possible hill to die on?”

“Fuck you Tim, you know I’m right.” Wow, you would think having a girlfriend would’ve made Steph less of a whirling force of snark and opinions, but Kon is beginning to suspect Cass _really_ enjoys Steph’s tirades. The enabler in question is currently gazing at her with what looks like fondness, hand tracing the lines of her upturned palm. “Conner!”

His Cadmus brain worms had very little to contribute on this specific subject, unfortunately. Fortunately? “Dunno what vore is,” he intones, drifting back to Tim with his glass in hand, who has started miming self-strangulation.

“Will educate,” Cass says, sliding her phone over to Kon. “Prepare your mind, and read.”

It’s open to a webpage that says — Kon squints — “BoweryDic” on the top of what looks like a dictionary entry.

Ah. Well.

“I guess.” An inhuman crow of success erupts from the blonde, causing Tim to glare at him. “What, dude? Sexual pleasure, something getting consumed, like, it does make sense. I’m programmed to be logical.” Kon is totally just fucking with him, because a flustered Tim is at least top ten on his list of Favorite Drake States. He sets his glass down by the bag of pretzels.

“‘ _Sexual pleasure_ ’?! What are you, _fifty_?” Maybe top five. The frazzled hair with a flush dusted across his cheekbones look is really fucking cute.

Leering, Kon flips upside down and touches his nose to Tim’s. “Are you into that, baby?” He gets a punch on the shoulder for his troubles that rotates his body midair to face the girls. Tim is very lucky Kon is basically an indestructible tank, because bro. What the hell does Alfred feed them.

“Great, much obliged Mr. Kent. Verdict,” Steph pauses to allow for Cass to slam down a pretzel stick in lieu of a gavel, “partial vore status confirmed. I hope this plagues you for a very long time.”

“I hope you find yourself contractually obligated to adopt and raise a millipede, but you never have enough money to buy enough shoes for all of its feet, and you perish knowing you have both failed your millipede progeny and also blown all your cash on tiny custom-made footwear.”

Tim’s invocation is met with two pairs of raised eyebrows, one upside-down, and Cass solemnly inserting two pretzels sticks into her mouth like fangs.

“Fair enough,” Steph says.

The clamor of Jason doing…something with their cabinets has not ceased since he flung open the window seven minutes ago. Kon stops scrolling through the chapter of _One Piece_ he was reading and twists to look at their kitchen, hanging an elbow over the back of the couch.

A small army consisting of a Manischewitz box, two jars of peanut butter, a bag of macadamia nuts Kon had brought back from Hawaiʻi — damn, those were definitely expired — and a variety of other nonperishables is slowly accumulating on the island. Kon assumes Jason is searching for food, though he probably shouldn’t have come to Tim’s for that; Tim prides himself on maintaining a highly eclectic pantry of items with variable levels of edibility. Kon is working on it.

The sound of the rough slide of callouses passing over each other registers as he turns back to see his boyfriend mindlessly rubbing the side of his middle finger knuckle against the pad of his thumb. Tim makes a half-aborted snarl of annoyance at his laptop screen while Kon watches bemusedly, and halts his stimming to type ferociously on the keyboard.

“You okay? Need something?”

The clacking continues. “Someone to make sense of this Frankenstein of a case, maybe.”

“Frankenstein is the name of the doctor, not the monster,” Jason says.

Kon’s mouth is open before the self-preservation instincts he’s worked hard to cultivate can clamp it shut. “I dunno, man. Wouldn’t you say the doctor was the real monster of the novel?” It’s silent for a beat, which implies that some shit is probably about to go down, but the response made the corner of Tim’s mouth curl up for a second, so. Worth it.

“O _ho_ , watch out boys, this one is _cle_ ver!”

Jason’s voice is somehow now right over his head. For the record, Kon is entirely convinced that Alfred Pennyworth is utilizing Bruce Wayne’s admittedly plentiful resources to concoct Metahuman-Gene-Induction smoothies for his grandchildren, because there is no other explanation for the rate of success the Bats have with sneaking up directly behind him unnoticed. “He’s witty! He has more than three brain cells to dance the _cumbia_ , unlike the jock.”

The initial jolt of adrenaline caused by Jason’s voice teleporting from the kitchen to above Kon’s ear subsiding to exasperation, Kon tilts his head to the side and glances up to see a sharp grin splashed on Jason’s face, who inclines his head toward Tim.

“I had a vested interest in the motifs.” Clark had shown up one day, dumped an armful of so-called classic novels outside of his bedroom door, and left — assumedly an attempt at helping nudge him into becoming a real boy, or whatever. Granted, Kon had torn through most of them during a particularly bad existential crisis some years back; he emerged from that week somewhat reassured that at least he wasn’t the only one with issues, and mildly grateful to his younger self for not selling the books to buy a Batman bong like he had originally planned.

“What, hit a little too close to home or something?” The bait, no matter how obvious, stings a bit.

“Enough.” The _snick_ of the laptop closing cuts off the conversation. “Stop it, Jason. You’re lucky I let you into my place at all. Speak to Conner that way again and you will be exiting it painfully.” Kon really hopes he's not about to be the catalyst to the first physical fight the brothers have had in seven months (a new record, and it would suck major balls for all involved if Steph had to bring the counter back to zero).

Jason shakes a Sleepytime tea box cheerfully. “Geez, put the claws away, Timberly. Was just leaving. Cool if I borrow this? And by borrow, I mean use and not give back.”

Tim glances at him. “Whatever.” Kon watches him navigate his body carefully around the coffee table in the center of the living room to the island, countertop still stacked with food. “Can you at least help me put this away?”

A text from Bart lights up Kon’s phone as Jason heaves a sigh and moves back into the kitchen.

**Bart**

[6:22PM] hihi

[6:22PM] whats up

**Kon**

[6:23PM] Chilling at Tim’s

[6:24PM] Jason showed up

**Bart**

[6:24PM] oh shit

[6:24PM] everything ok??????

**Kon**

[6:26PM] Yeah he just wanted tea lol

**Bart**

[6:26PM] ok!!! weird. but glad it wasnt anything bad

[6:26PM] u guys wanna hang w me and cassie this weekend??

[6:26PM] texted tim a few min ago to ask but i think his phone is off

[6:26PM] got impatient :(

**Kon**

[6:28PM] Yeah he’s working on a case right now

[6:29PM] I’ll try to pull him away but u know how he gets

**Bart**

[6:30PM] all too well…

[6:30PM] well lmk what you guys decide!

[6:30PM] he can bring his stuff if he wants to

**Kon**

[6:31PM] Sounds good! Hopefully we can

[6:31PM] It would be good for him to relax for a bit

**Bart**

[6:31PM] yea!! and for u too!!

[6:31PM] miss u!

**Kon**

[6:33PM] Miss u too dude

**Bart**

[6:33PM] <33

A slam of the cabinet door, and Jason is halfway out the window.

“Peace out.” He points at Kon. “Play nice, Frankie.” The _or else_ would be heavily implied if Kon could tell whether or not the threat was genuine.

Another beat and Jason is gone. “Huh,” Kon says. “Why didn’t he just use the door? He’s not even in uniform.”

Tim flops down next to him and leans into his side. “Said something about windows being for family.” He rubs his eyes. “Think he was joking, but I can never tell.”

“Ah.”

“Mm. Sorry about,” Tim grimaces and flutters a hand in the air, “what he said, by the way. We just wrapped up this other case that hit kinda close to home for him, I think. He’s been a little touchy recently.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Kon gently jostles the shoulder Tim is pressed into. “But look at _you_ , Mister Emotional Intelligence!”

Tim grunts. “Yeah, been working on it.”

“Proud of you. Oh, Bart wants to know if you’re free to hang out this weekend.”

Humming, Tim gets to his feet and cracks his neck. “Can I bring my laptop?”

“Yeah.” Bart will most likely attempt to confiscate it the moment Tim enters the room, but Kon figures they can deal with that when it happens. “Cassie’s coming too.”

“Sounds good.” Tim’s hand pushes through his hair. Gotham doesn’t really have a golden hour — that would require the sun to be visible beyond the blanket of clouds more than once a week at best — but a few weak beams of evening light have straggled through their window in the past few minutes, illuminating the dust motes shifting around Tim’s figure. “I love you, you know that, right?”

His tousled hair makes him seem much younger. “I know. I love you too.” Endless movies and books about people being unable to say those three words, but for Kon it’s always come as naturally as breathing. He can’t imagine a world devoid of loving Tim, doesn’t want to. He’d rather be dead.

“Mwah. You hungry?”

Nighttime should, objectively, probably be a bit unnerving to the boy whose genetic material consists partially of Superman's own DNA — decreased photonucleic effect, of course, strategically not an environment best conducive to his survival. Gotham nights in particular should give rise to some sort of concern; its seemingly natural proclivity for crime only escalating as the daylight fades. Shadows acting as harbingers of ill will and suffering, menacing lines cutting through the gloom.

And yet, and yet. Kon stands hunched on the roof of Tim’s apartment building and relishes the tenebrous veil pressing close around him. And yet, is it not true that the Batman claims the dark for his own? That the cover of night shields vulnerable bodies from prying eyes? Light is so sterile, so unforgiving as it pierces every surface and irradiates, forces acknowledgement and analysis. Kon is so tired of being prodded and examined, thought that would’ve ended with his Cadmus _tenure_ (tenure, like it was a fucking choice) but he was wrong, very wrong.

And so he’s here, face to the wind, gulping and _feeling_ , really not fair that he didn’t get a say in which emotions to deaden — actually, fuck, not very fair that he was grown in a _lab_ and exploded into the world like a literal — no, not quote-like-unquote, he _is_ a literal experiment, little test-tube teenager, let’s twist and _poke_ the DNA into place, oh wow, what if we do that? Throw that in the mix too! Soul? Does it matter? What _does_ matter? Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and caldron bubble!

Who is he? Who is he? Who is he? Who is h—

The only thing that saves Tim from being flung off the roof is his admittedly impressive and sharply honed Robin training, which has saved him from being flung from many a high place. Also, he has a grapple, probably, right? So it’s okay. Is it okay? Oh god, Tim, I just almost killed you, I almost kill so many people, so easily, is this the future for me? Who am I? Wh—

“Wow. Okay. Kon. You have to focus on me.” Tim’s voice. “Hey. I’m going to take some breaths, okay? Follow me when you can.”

Tim ( _Tim_ ) is in front of him, chest rising and falling with a deep steady rhythm. _In_ , _out_. Wow, his body is so muscular. Handsome. _In_ , _out_. A dark strand of hair has fallen across Tim’s forehead, pointing directly toward his right eye, which — is he okay?

“I’m fine. Can you keep following my actions?” _In_ , _out_. “Good, good.” He wants to be good. “You are. You’re perfect.” That might be a bit of an exaggeration. _In_ , _out_.

“Can you name five things that you see?” Things he can see? Tim. “A little more specific?” Okay. Tim’s white undershirt. “Very good.” The scar on Tim’s cheek. Tim’s nose. “Great, anything else?” Not really, it’s kind of dark. Not that he minds.

“Okay, that’s fine. Do you know who I am?” Tim. Soulmate. _In_ , _out_. “Oh boy. Yes.” _In_ , _out_.

Kon begins to pick out more details of the person standing carefully in his line of sight as the flow of oxygen circulates. He has to squint to see, light is pretty bad out here. Inhale; another frenzied thought shakes itself to composure.

The breeze is light. It’s drizzling a bit, unsurprising for Gotham.

“Tim.”

“Kon,” Tim smiles faintly. “Hello.”

“Ah. Hi.”

“Can I touch you?” He pauses. “Like, your shoulders.”

“Sure.” And Tim’s hands are on him, firm and unyielding. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

“What, ah, what are you doing here?” Settled vaguely back into himself. Thoughts somewhat linear. Kon is — ah, fuck. Really embarrassed. It’s probably four in the morning, and Tim definitely shouldn’t be skimping on sleep.

Tim massages his shoulders gently. “Woke up and you were gone. Had to find you.” Says it with finality.

Kon laughs nervously. “Sorry, um, abo—”

“Nope,” Tim cuts him off. “No apologies. Don’t think right now. Focus on me.” He slides his right hand down to lay flat on Kon’s chest, moves his left to reach down to wrap Kon’s hand in a steady grip. Brings Kon’s hand to Tim’s chest so Kon feels the stitching beneath his finger pads.

It really was late. Early? Kon knows Tim is usually out on patrol until the wee hours but that was the whole point of today, sort of, he finally got to _rest_ , but of course Kon went and ruined it—

“Kon. Stop thinking. ” A tinge of Robin colors the edge of his voice.

So he stops, and they stand there in the dark.

Kon has been making slow circuits throughout the open layout of their common area midair for the past hour or so, bag of pre-shredded cheese abandoned on the island. Very smart of Tim to install one-way windows for their house so he could hover cross-legged whenever the desire struck without worrying about incriminating headlines being run the next day in the _Gotham Gazette_.

The C++ script he’s been trying to wrestle into submission floats in his mind’s eye; the developer before him had some weird-ass organization system for the loops, which of course weren’t working properly, but before Kon could fix the actual _bug_ he had to understand how the hell the code was laid out in the first place. Double whammy.

A peal of laughter is the only indication of Cass and Tim’s presence before the door opens to their snickering, bodies moving perfectly in tandem, spatially aware of the other as only those who have worked over ten years together could be. Kon, hanging airborne by the record player, tosses them a wave.

“Have fun?” He asks.

Cass ruffles Tim’s hair before handing him her board to put away. “Yes. Was kind of like flying across the rooftops, once we went fast enough,” hands flicking through _skating_ , _fun, free_. Kon signs _happy_ in return.

“Can’t believe my husband and sister-and-law are both jocks,” he groans, following Cass to the kitchen. She picks up the cheese and raises an eyebrow at him. “Hey, Kon hungies.”

Reappearing from the closet, Tim tugs his knee down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Complaining about me?”

“Always.” Kon uncurls his legs and succumbs to gravity once again, pecks Tim’s lips with his.

Cass has relocated his cheese to the refrigerator. Why was his life one interminable episode of cruelty and injustice. “Doing work? Floating all over the house?” She inquires after grabbing a Sprite, condensation running down her fingers.

“Yeah.” He grumbles. “Have to fix some stupid error thing, but since I didn’t write the base code I have to go in and figure out what’s going on before I can even try to brainstorm solutions.” Cass nods sagely, a thoughtful gesture considering Kon knows she has no patience for anything even adjacent to technology. “Sitting and tapping the table wasn’t doing anything so I switched gears to rile up the brain juice.”

“Gross!” Tim chirps.

“Agreed,” Cass says, then burps.

“Tough crowd.” The whir of his laptop fan stops when Kon shuts the lid. “I give up for today, anyway.”

Tim hums, socked feet padding across to the couch, where he vaults over the back to land on the cushions. Cass copies him, emitting a flat “parkour” and plopping effortlessly on one of their pillows. “Can we play Mario Kart?” She asks with wide eyes, which doesn’t affect Kon but never fails to influence Tim, who immediately activates his own desperate puppy look. That works on Kon.

He sighs and starts to dig through their cabinet for the game. “Tim, if you play Bowser again I’m joining forces with Cass to beat your ass.”

“ _Haa_?” Tim squawks. “Okay, listen, just because you get mad that you don’t choose your character according to strategy doesn’t mean—”

“You spend the entire game ramming into everyone else’s carts and cackling evilly as they careen off the track.”

“It’s true,” Cass agrees. “Won’t go easy on you this time.” The screen jumps into life. Kon hands Tim his custom-designed Superboy controller (Kon is very smug at all the merchandise Tim acquired over the years that boasts _his_ name, thank you for asking) and Cass the other. He tucks his body into the space between Tim and the arm of the couch. Cass leans her head into Tim’s opposite shoulder, and Nintendo music jingles merrily from the TV.

“And why exactly were these findings not brought to my attention prior to the briefing?” Kon can tell from his tone that Tim is pissed, the kind where he has no compunctions letting other people to know he’s pissed because their perception of him no longer matters. Whoever is on the opposite line is fucked, to use the technical term. “No mention of them in our book of work review. Did I happen to _miss_ the meeting that perhaps highlighted the results with a recommended course of action?

“No? Well I suggest that be rectified immediately. Leverage whatever resources you have on hand to compile a deck and report to Duke by end of week.” His _thank you_ is clipped and terminates the call.

“Bad news?” Tim’s legs are slung over his lap as they rest on the couch. The TV is muted, a _DS9_ episode flickering in the background.

This was _supposed_ to be Tim’s day off, but Duke had texted him halfway through lunch and triggered an avalanche of communication that had only just now been resolved, hours later.

“Just some of the consultants — new, I think — not bothering to share some data ’cuz it didn’t look useful to them.” Tim rubs his fingers idly. “Should be fine now that Duke caught it, but,” he breaks off with an irritated noise. “Frustrating. Can’t control everything.”

The feet on his lap are covered with Batman-themed socks. Gag gift from Dick. Kon has matching Superman ones.

Kon starts pressing his palms into the sole of the left foot. “Well, at least it’s been resolved, right? And hopefully it won’t happen again,” rubs a thumb down the length of his arch, “’cuz you did your I’m The Boss Man voice, and nobody wants to hear that twice.”

“Except for you.” Tim waggles his eyebrows.

Kon winks. “No shame. And at least they actually respect you now. Remember, like, seven years ago? They barely gave you the time of day.”

“I suppose,” Tim mutters, head slouching down into his collarbones like a turtle. The toes being cupped by Kon’s hands squirm. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” A lull descends. Kon can chatter and blab endlessly with the best of them, but there’s an ease and serenity in stillness he found only after he began spending long stretches of time with Tim. Comforting, akin to the feeling evoked when he sees the night wrap itself around the Kansas stars, or feels Krypto nuzzle his wet nose into his hand.

He switches his movements to Tim’s other foot. The callouses are tangible even under a layer of cotton, thick with defined friction ridges. It’s fascinating to feel the physical tokens of elapsed time, to remember that Tim is able to keep memories stamped on his body rather than maintained solely in an elusive mental compartment.

Trailing his finger over a scar that circles Tim’s ankle makes the man shiver. An unbearable lightness begins to build in Kon’s chest.

“You wanna do something this weekend?” Kon asks.

“Mm, sure,” Tim answers, opening an eyelid to peer at him. “You have any ideas?”

“Ma was telling me that our strawberry plants are ready to be harvested, if we wanted to go down to the farm and help out?” Kon shrugs. “Berry picking is pretty fun. And she’ll probably make a pie.”

Tim clears his throat dramatically and says, with a speech pattern oddly reminiscent of Damian: “Botanically speaking, a strawberry is not a berry but an aggregate accessory fruit, with the understanding that the flesh is derived from the ovarian receptacle, not the ovaries themselves.”

“Berry cool.” A pillow smacks his face. “So was that a yes?”

“Sure, as long as I can have a few before they go in the pie,” Tim says, as though Kon wouldn’t eat the world raw if he thought it’s what Tim wanted. “And I humbly request that you wear a sleeveless shirt.”

“Oh yeah?” Tim retracts his legs only to slide into his lap, arms encircling Kon’s neck. “I see. You _do_ only love me for my body.”

There’s an eyelash resting on Tim’s cheekbone. From this distance Kon can see his pupils dilate. “Yeah,” Tim breathes. “That gonna be a problem for you?”

Kon grips his waist and captures his lips in a kiss; pulls away with a lazy grin as Tim whines. “Nah.” He draws their bodies closer together, soft contentment unfurling its wings in his heart.

Tim’s lips are chapped, skin dark underneath the eyes. The rush of affection that floods Kon’s body is overwhelming.

He traces his thumb across Tim’s face to brush away the lash and keeps his hand there for a second kiss, slow and warm. Tim’s hands tug at the curls at the base of his skull. A sigh trickles from someone’s mouth, origin unclear, heralding the submission of Kon’s brain to pleasing touch. There is only Tim on him, with him, tongue dipping inside mischievously.

A dissonant ringtone forces a strand of attention to weave its way through the tattered remains of his cerebral cortex. The flannel under his fingertips bunches, Tim dropping another kiss back onto his lips before stretching to retrieve his phone.

“Ah.”

“What is it?” Is what Kon thinks he says in return, though upon second thought it may have come out more like _wass’t?_

Tim shifts on his lap — _ah_ — and exhales. “It’s the, like, the alarm you set a few months ago.” Kon attempts to make his mouth work again. “To remind me to eat. Or whatever. But we can do that later?” The statement curves up into an inquiry.

And while the primal part of Kon is screaming _continue, you fucker, he’s squirming on your dick_ , the mention of the purpose of the alarm sets the gears back into motion. “Nope, no way, we can get back to this later.” Tim pouts. “But we should eat now. What time is it?”

“Seven thirty.”

“Damn. Wanna just go get pizza?” A deep sigh and a nod from Tim, who pulls him in for one last burning kiss before untangling himself to walk to their bedroom. The remnants of an agreeable buzz migrate from Kon's lips, to his skin where Tim had been folded into him.

Tim emerges a few minutes later with his wallet and Kon’s worn leather jacket draped on his figure. Kon’s stupid pack animal brain purrs happily at the sight. “Luigi’s?” He asks while striding back to the couch to turn the TV off with the remote. 

“Mamma mia,” Kon smirks, “who is this sp—”

“Don’t—”

“— _icy_ meat-a-ball I see before me?” Keys jangling as Tim takes his hand and begins to lead him outside the apartment. Warmth fills his heart at the pressure of Tim’s hand in his.

“You are so ridiculous,” keys jangling as Tim deftly locks the door one-handed, “and I refuse to acknowledge what you just said. Do you even have any money with you?”

Their reflection flashes in distortion on the windows as they make their way down the spiral staircase. “Who here owns a million-dollar company again? I think you can spare a fiver on your incredibly sexy and awesome boyfriend.”

“I don’t _own_ the company, not really, it’s complicated, you know how these things work, you worked for that start-up thing—”

“Worst job _ever_ , by the way.”

“I love you.” The tendrils of a flush curl themselves across Tim’s face as he puffs out his cheeks — which objectively should look super weird on a man of twenty-seven years of age, but it’s Tim, so it makes Kon’s heart melt instead — and shakes his head.

“Not gonna get you out of unfolding laundry, bucko.”

“ _Your_ bucko,” Kon pouts. “Right?”

Tim rolls his eyes and points to the laundry basket on the floor. “You promised you would respect the chore wheel, asshole. Now fulfill your side of the agreement and I won’t have to leak the audio of you warbling eighties music in the shower.” In Kon’s defense, 'The Final Countdown' is a catchy fucking song. “To Jason.”

Okay, no way can he let that happen. The most terrifying aspect of Tim’s suspiciously excellent blackmailing abilities is his commitment to follow through on promises. And Jason would not hesitate to show every single person the audible footprint of his shame at the next family dinner, and then Damian — with Jon, by extension, younger siblings are truly godless — would never let him hear the end of it, _literally_ , so no.

“You suck,” Kon says. “Not much of a wheel when there’s only two of us.” He slides off the bed to begin the dreaded cycle of lift, fold, place, lift, fold, place.

The swivel chair Tim is currently tormenting squeaks sadly at the start of another rotation. “It’s just fair! I did it last time.” Which is true, but it doesn’t mean Kon has to like it.

“Why hasn’t WayneTech or whatever created an automated process for this yet, huh?”

“We did, but I asked them to destroy it solely to spite you.”

Kon snorts and throws a sock at Tim. “Ah, of course.” He twists his head to catch Tim waggling his eyebrows. “Bet Harry would rescue the blueprints if I asked nicely.”

Scowling, Tim pushes off from the chair to flop belly first on their king size bed, head resting sideways on a pillow. “ _Harry_ knows to watch himself. Told Duke to keep him busy in the lab when you come to visit. He’s got my back.”

The development of Duke and Tim being brothers-in-R&D-and-also-trickery-and-also-he-guesses-technically-crime-of-the-vigilante-variety was one nobody had expected, much to the aforementioned brothers’ glee. Kon shakes out one of his old-ass Superboy shirts. “You being irrationally jealous is so funny. Is this mine? Or is this one you stole?”

“Not irrational! He bought you a drink at our Chanukah party!” Tim whines as he shoves his face fully into the pillow; a muffled “mine, I think” escapes a second later.

“He _graciously_ went to get me a drink from the bar because I was talking to Cass. The bar that was _free_ because you were hosting a holiday celebration for your employees at _no cost to them_.”

A dismissive noise erupts presumably from Tim’s mouth, which is still drowning in fabric. He wiggles like some sort of freaky, over-caffeinated eel and rolls to stare at the ceiling. “You’re hot. People stare. I can tell." Kon regrets mentioning Harry as soon as he registers the touch of insecurity that has colored Tim’s tone. It’s been a while since he’s heard it.

“Okay, Timothy Drake hyphen Wayne hyphen Kent.” Tim’s eyes flicker to where Kon has stood up, then back to the mottled paint job above him. “First of all, people stare because I’m with you.”

He sniffs contemptuously.

“Secondly, and this is most important. I am only interested in you, now and forever.” The mattress dips under Kon’s weight. “I know you know this. You know me. You know I don’t commit to anything I don’t want to. There is simply no way I would still be here, with you, if I wasn’t happy and determined to live out the rest of my life by your side, okay?”

Tim stretches his arms up, a clear indication for Kon to fall onto his body. Which he does, sparing some TTK to prevent his weight from entirely squashing his husband. Tim could take it, but Kon is a fairly large man.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Tim says. “Sorry. Was just — I dunno. Little in my head today. Stressed.”

“I’ll say it as much as you need,” Kon murmurs, pressing kisses to both of Tim’s cheeks. “Sorry I didn’t notice.”

“’S fine.” Tim’s skin is warm against his body, muscles rippling underneath. Kon allows the moment to soften all processes that aren’t focusing on Tim, feels a golden delirium sweep from his head to his toes.

 _Love you._ The rhythm of the thought beats in time with his heart, metronomic. Endless. Kon hopes Tim can feel it. 


End file.
